


Terror Firma

by Todesengel



Category: Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-21
Updated: 2005-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One way or another, it's their last night on earth</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terror Firma

Sven sat against the western wall of the bombed out cottage and watched the sky burn orange and red. He found himself counting the seconds between the initial bursts of light -- like fireworks, only more so, because the patterns in the sky weren't the result of a careful balance of powders, but the random destruction of exploding weapons -- and the chest-echoing shudder of sound, like this was thunder and lightening and he was counting the miles between himself and the storm. A stupid thing, since the storm was already upon them, and the bombs bursting in the night sky could only tell him that the war wasn't here, in this place, for which he was grateful; it was away, far away, in some other place with some other men who sat and watched the sky in fear.

Far away, but getting closer, and there was no place on this planet where the war would not reach them.

Rain dripped down from the broken eaves and Sven thought about heading back inside, where there was a bit more roof, and the warmth of bodies to block out the night chill. He wiped away the dampness on the back of his neck and shifted around until he was further under cover instead.

"Tomorrow," Lance said when he sat down. His fingers shook as he tried to light a cigarette, and he dropped the match with a hiss and a curse. Sven expected him to try again, but Lance put the cigarette away instead and pulled his knees up to his chest, laced fingers holding them tightly in place. "Hunk says that we'll be ready to go tomorrow."

"So I guess we're all going to die tomorrow, then."

Another burst of fire, and it lit up Lance's face in crazy planes of hellish light. "Right."

They didn't say a word about the futility of this whole scheme -- what was the point? No need to mention the armada waiting up there, or the enemy waiting down here, or the fact that they probably didn't have nearly enough fuel to get them out of the atmosphere, let alone away from this death trap of a planet where five ragged, tired boys were all that was left of a company of one hundred strong; might be all that was left of the Alliance, except for the fact that the bombs were still going strong, and that meant there was somebody out there who was still fighting. No need to state the obvious, when all they wanted was to survive, and better to survive in this way than to be taken back to the death camps.

"Last night on earth," Lance muttered. He fidgeted, twitched where he sat, nervous hands playing arpeggios on his pants legs. "Didn't figure I'd spend it this way."

"Better than some." Much better, in Sven's mind. Nice, quick death, and if they did it right, they'd take out some artillery with the flaming wreckage of their craft. Personally, Sven was hoping for an explosion -- maybe the fuel cell rupturing, or a bomb impacting with the engine; a big ball of fire that would rob him of his life before he had time to think about the rapidly approaching ground or, worse yet, the possibility of survival.

Not like they'd be able to survive a crash in that thing, cobbled together from scraps of ships. Hunk was good, and Pidge might be able to look at a pile of scrap and trash and see the ways it could be put together into a ship, but Sven knew his physics and he knew his ships, and they'd be lucky if the rust bucket they were all going to get into tomorrow and fly off into the great unknown didn't shake itself apart on liftoff.

The scrape of Lance's clothes against the stones was insidiously loud, no rhythm to his restless movement. Sven bit back the urge to smack Lance, and turned his head to face Lance head on.

"Settle down," he growled out.

"Sorry." Lance stilled. He began fidget again before Sven could breathe twice, and when Sven glared at him he smiled, like a flash of summer lightening. "I'm just. Nervous."

"About tomorrow?" Lance nodded and Sven looked away. "Why?"

"I just." Lance talked with his hands, he always had, the legacy of having deaf parents who'd died early on in the war; a blessing, perhaps, since they didn't have to see the hell the rest of them lived in. "I'm afraid."

"Of what? Death?" Sven snorted and just managed to keep the sneer off of his face.

"No, man. Life." More nervous gesturing, Lance speaking to himself in a language that the rest of them only half understood. "We might. This might not be it. We could _live_ Sven. We could make it. The way Keith tells it -- "

"Oh, well, Keith." Sven rolled his eyes, and what might have been a grin ghosted across his face. "You should know better than to listen to him by now. Keith could sell horns to a devil, a song to the birds and still talk his way past the pearly gates."

"It's not. It's not just _spin_ this time." Such fervent hope in Lance's voice, and Sven could kill Keith for putting it there, for making Lance believe that maybe they weren't going to get fucked over by the uncaring Universe for once. "He believes. We can do it, Sven."

Sven could feel Lance tense up beside him, the prelude to rising, and as far away as the bombs were, the war was all around them, and Sven knew all too well what was lurking out there in the darkness. He could see the future in a blinding flash of clarity -- Lance pacing as he did when he was too worked up to sit still; the sharp, burning smell of gunpowder; the hot shower of Lance's blood as his head was blown away -- and he couldn't let that happen. So he reached out and grabbed Lance's arm and tugged just as Lance began to stand, unbalanced him so that Lance sprawled out across his lap.

Lance pushed himself up. Turned, just slightly, the whites of his eyes stained red by the glow of the bombs. His mouth opened, just a little, in preparation of whatever it was that he was going to say.

"Quiet," Sven hissed, and he pulled Lance onto his lap and pressed his lips against Lance's as further insurance.

Lance tasted mostly like metal tonight. Sweet and tangy. His lips were dry, and his mouth opened further when Sven ran his tongue across them. Lance made a small noise -- not protest, not surprise, something else -- and the fingers he dug into Sven's shoulders weren't there to cause pain, to make this stop. It was so easy for Sven's hand to find its way beneath Lance's shirt, to fumble with the buttons of his pants. Lance groaned into his mouth, and Sven felt a sudden wave of vertigo, a strange spinning sensation at the odd mix of the familiar and the strange. This wasn't the first time he'd done this with Lance, wasn't the first time he'd reached down and stroked just so, wrapped his hand around both their dicks and stroked; wasn't the first time he'd tucked his head in just so, breathed in the scent of Lance's growing arousal -- sweat and lust and dirt and leather and skin mixed together. Familiar, but never in this context, never with the threat of death looming so prominently above them, shuddering through their bodies so insistently that Sven didn't realize he was stroking in time to the explosions until Lance made a small noise of protest at the roughness of Sven's touch.

He slowed down, varied the timing, until Lance protested again, although this time it was annoyance, demanding that Sven hurry up, stop teasing. Sven smiled into the side of Lance's neck, and in that moment there was nothing at all except his hand and Lance's heat and the feeling of Lance's hitching breath as it passed between their chests and whispered in his ear. He didn't shudder as he came, but he did bite into Lance's jacket to muffle the noise that forced its way out of his throat.

His hand was sticky, and he grimaced, wiped it on Lance's shirt.

"Hey." Lance's protest was feeble, and he was heavy where he slumped against Sven in boneless contentment.

"It's not like you haven't got worse on there." Sven let his head fall back against the wall, grunted as it hit the stone a lot harder than he expected. He plucked the cigarettes and matches out of Lance's jacket and lit one. Lance hummed in his ear, a pleasant buzzing that Sven knew would become annoying in a few moments once the hazy after-glow left.

The dark hull of their scrap-metal ship burned orange and red.

Last night on earth, no matter what the outcome.

Sven took a deep drag, added his own smoke to the air.

Well.

He'd had worse.


End file.
